William S. Grieve's page

"They usually require a match." he observes dryly, sighing with relief; the fall had looked pretty bad, but it seems the arrow hadn't hit anything important.

William nods his agreement to Raveneau's advice. "We should put some distance between us, and then if we could borrow your matches?" he whispers, looking to T.J. at the last.

"Michael! Shit!" the black man swears, running up to his friend and grabbing a hold of his shoulders, trying to pull him away into the darkness.

William takes the leads of Snow and Beauty and leads the way down the rocky ramp of debris, taking it very slowly. The horses seem nervous as the rocks shift and a couple dislodge beneath their feet--not to mention the darkness of the tunnel--but he eventually manages to get them all down safely and stands in the shaft of light shining down from above. "Looks pretty clear."

"Thanks doc." he murmurs, already disregarding Dione's orders to rest up as he checks Snow out to make sure she wasn't harmed by her narrow escape.

Ughh... wish I had my rifle..." William mutters as Michael drags him to his feet. An arrow flying over the car's wall, impacting into what used to be the roof makes him reconsider, ducking back down to keep out of sight. "What's the plan?" he asks, looking around at the other survivors as the shadowy sphere nearby fades away. He shakes his head at Raveneau's question.

There are like... almost no pictures of mwangi, and those that do are all in tribal dress and stuff, so please try and remember that William is black.

Also as far as them being an odd pair, that's true, but remember slavery has been abolished in North America for a while now, even in the south.

William didn't so much dislike trains as he disliked sitting around inside. He'd always much preferred to be out and about doing things, or if he couldn't do that at least be outside participating. Even when they rode wagons he either liked to drive, or if that wasn't an option, sit up front, or ride on the roof; it wasn't claustrophobia, just a certain type of restlessness, his own manifestation of Michael's own drive perhaps.

When Michael ruffles his hair he knocks his hand aside in embarrassment. "Still another day Michael." he observes, spitting tobacco juice into the railway provided spitoon. "an' all we know is he's meant to be operating in Cali'. 'aint much to go on." he observes sourly, lounging in his seat.